


In Duty

by TheCrackedKatana



Series: Tales of the Sovereign [3]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emperor Hux, Enforcer Kylo Ren, Hurt/Comfort, I cried a lot when I wrote this damn thing, Injury, Jealous Kylo Ren, M/M, Mistakes have been made
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-31
Updated: 2016-05-31
Packaged: 2018-07-11 08:27:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7040815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrackedKatana/pseuds/TheCrackedKatana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the emperor's "political obligations" begin to wear on Kylo Ren's sense of duty, the enforcer confronts his emperor about the status of their relationship, only to be served an answer he never expected.  Now, the enforcer must decide which is greater, his loyalty to the man he cares for or his sense of self-preservation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Duty

Artwork by the super-amazing [HELLEBARDE!!](http://hellebarde.tumblr.com/)

There was actual screaming when I saw it. So much screaming. I scared small children three houses over, okay.

_Stars._ Pools of liquid fire that burn a brilliant radiance into the black canvas of night. The cold beauty of the sky is a familiarity he usually embraces. It is a constant in a world of change, a certainty. But darkness and seclusion are of little comfort to him now.

"Such indiscretions are most unbecoming to a woman of your status, Leena."

The woman laughs and Hux's sultry chuckle is the counterpoint to the tinkling shatter of mental glass. He shoves a hand through his hair, orders himself to think of something else, to cast his focus elsewhere, but the shadows of the figures within the room speak louder than their hushed words could ever manage.

"Why, Your Majesty. Surely we can reach some kind of . . . arrangement."

His hand upon her hip. The sly brush of fingers through sun-kissed hair. The rustling of fabric as expensive garments drop to the ground unheeded. It is not the first time he has borne witness to such things against his will, not the first time in months. Or weeks. Even days.

"Oh yes. I feel certain that we can."

The hand at his side fists into a clench of fingers. It is his duty, not his right.

But the line between the two is not a distinction he can fathom.

Calling the Force to his center, he leaps from the balcony with a flutter of robes, skirts three stories of stone ledges with a light rebound of booted feet, and drops to the ground in a near soundless crouch.

The labyrinth of the courtyard is a familiar path and he navigates the hedge work with deft ease, stalking past the climbing thorns of Venus rose vines, vaulting over the high wall as if it is a mere hindrance.

Beyond the paved path of the nearest garden is the desolate flatness of unkempt grasses, the wry stalks broken and dried, crunching beneath his boots as he makes his way to the farthest edge where the grass melds into sand. The moonlit blackness of the sea's choppy waters greet him and he stares into the tidal abyss for what feels like an eternity, the wind carding salty fingers through his hair, stinging the corners of his eyes.

The pull of the dual moons has not brought forth the tide yet and the remnants of what was once a pier are readily visible above the waves. He gathers the Force energy within himself and runs. The wooden column is slick with algae, crusted with salt and barnacles, but his landing is precise, his footing solid. He leaps to the next one. And the next.

Despite the jostling splash of water, the end of the pier is intact, the boards worn and weathered, but solid. He does not stand upon the planks, but rather perches atop the remains of the last pole, which is large enough to accommodate his booted feet with room to spare.

The twinkling of stars has begun to fade into obscurity beneath the ominous darkness of cloud cover, yet the moons remain in visible defiance of the impending storm, the sea a line of black against a grey scale horizon. It is a metaphysical mirror, an echo.

A hint of starlight peeks from the mass of clouds and he looks away.

 

_________________________

 

The match sparks with a hiss of sound and Hux cups a hand behind it, lowering his head enough to light the freshly rolled cigarette between his lips. It the finest blend of tobacco in the galaxy, a warm and robust scent with a flavor profile that is both bold and subtle. But the enjoyment of such things is lost upon the brooding Emperor, who has taken leave of his bed chamber in favor of a bit of privacy.

Despite the amorous advances, the alcohol, and the political gains for "inspiration," his interest in Senator Fingehn's daughter is lukewarm at best. It is certainly not due to a lack of beauty, nor is it that she possesses a vapid lack of intrigue. No, there is something else, something he cannot quite place.

Or will not.

Exhaling a line of smoke into the cool hush of the night air, he glances across the courtyard, past the labyrinth of bushes, beyond the cracked stone walls. Alive. Lush. So unlike the sterile walls of the Finalizer, the clean, metallic finish of polished durasteel. The quiet hum of engines.

In this world, Nature gave voice to every whim via the rustling of leaves, the chirp of a bird, the wings of an insect. The distant call of strange creatures engaged in early spring carnality.

The slightest hint of a smile curved his lips. Ah, yes. He know of these sounds quite well.

"Your Majesty . . ."

The now-familiar voice of the senator's daughter is a cultured chime from the open doors. He does not need to turn his head to know that she is unclothed, anticipating his return.

He resists the urge to grind his teeth. No, this will not do.

"Leave me," he says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

He can feel the hesitancy in her departure, the tell-tale uncertain footsteps, but Leena does not argue. She does not so much as speak. Clearly, her father's teachings have done their job well. Perhaps he will send the man a gift of sorts as a tribute to his efforts.

He takes him time, finishes the cigarette until the edges nearly singe his lips, and turns to walk back into the room, relieved to find the woman and her things gone from his sight as if they had never existed.

Perhaps he should have Ren walk her back to her own quarters. The estate is enormous, a sprawling mass of mortar, brick, and steel that is an unnecessary luxury. One could easily become lost.

"Ren," he says as he pushes the heavy door open. "See to it that . . ."

His words trail into silent confusion. The refined visage of Captain Phasma greets him, blonde hair combed to slick perfection, much like his own ginger locks.

"Where is he."

The words hold more heat than wonderment, but Phasma does not so much as flinch.

"I haven't a clue, sir," she answers. "I know only that he left me to guard you in his stead."

"That," the Emperor says, "was not his decision to make."

Phasma says nothing, which is a wise decision on her part, considering the sudden huff Hux finds himself caught up in. The great bastard. How dare he simply abandon his duty to consort with . . . well, whatever nonsense might have conjured his attentions. Certainly it was not as important as the duty to the Emperor of the entire galactic order.

While the Captain's instincts are sharper than most, she does not have Ren's ability to foresee events, to confirm the intent of others via mind trickery. She does not have his speed, his prowess with a lightsaber.

"Would you like me to find him for you, sir?"

Hux fixes the woman with an even, emotionless stare.

"No," he says. "I shall find him myself."

 

___________________________________

 

The sea is a tempestuous creature, asserting black ire and spray against the rocky shore, a sight the Emperor has not bothered to behold for many months. While the water is visible from the topmost portion of the palace, he does not visit it, nor has he considered its vastness until now. He does not know what has led him to this place, nor does he question it, but it is not long before the answer becomes readily apparent.

Amongst the dark turbulence of the waves crouches a familiar form, a hunching of shoulders all-too-easily identifiable, the lean frame crouched upon a weathered pillar. Despite the crashing, reckless battle of the sea, the water somehow does not touch him and for a moment, Hux can only stare.

"Ren . . ."

The other man's name is soft chime of sound that is cast aside by the wind, but yet, the Enforcer turns, glances over his shoulder, and rises to his full height. He makes no move to return to the battered pier, but rather stands atop the pillar, the sea far too close to his boots for Hux's liking. It is a dangerous stance, one that brings forth an impatient nervousness in the Emperor that he would rather not endure.

"Ren!" he shouts beyond the biting wind. "Come down from there this instant!"

While Kylo's defiance of the order lasts mere seconds, it seems to stretch into an eternity. The man vaults his way from one precariously leaning pillar to another, landing not upon the aging pier, but rather choosing the jutting rocks. He lands in a crouch before Hux with a fluttering of his surcoat, taking his time to rise.

Although the advantage of Ren's height is slight, he suddenly seems to tower over Hux, the waves crashing upon the rocks behind him with furious spray. It reminds Hux that his Enforcer is no ordinary man, that things beyond his own comprehension are transpiring along with the whims of Ren's emotions and Hux cannot possibly grasp just how both man and nature are seemingly entwined.

But it is not the turbulent waters or the whipping wind that brings a chill to his heart. No, that would be the stark coldness of the other man's stare, a stare which now seems to seek to pierce him in a way that unnerves him, shakes his confidence.

"What in the galaxy are you doing out here?" Hux demands.

Ren says nothing, turns his stare to the sea for a moment, the wind rifling his hair at disproportionate angles before he flicks his gaze back to Hux, who resists the urge to take a step backwards.

"What concern is it of yours?"

Hux's eyes narrow. What an audacious creature his Enforcer is in this moment. In _every_ moment.

"You abandoned your position," Hux says.

Ren has the nerve to shrug a shoulder, a simple and dismissive gesture that sets Hux's teeth on edge.

"I believe you were _busy,_ Your Majesty."

"Busy?" Hux huffs. "It matters not if I am 'busy,' Ren. Your duty is to guard my chambers during such moments."

The Enforcer tilts his head in a slow, almost preternatural, fashion. "Guard you against what, exactly? The libido of some wanton senator's daughter? Surely you can defend yourself against such things."

Hux stiffens. The formality of Ren's speech is an unusual component typically reserved for polite political discourse, not private conversations with Hux. It adds an intangible distance between them.

The Emperor's short nails dig into his palms as he fists his hands at his side. How dare this man question his motives? He, Brendol Hux, the ruler of the entire galactic order questioned by his own protection?

It hardens him, bristles his emotions to an angry clench, sharpens his tongue to verbal poison.

"What I do in my bed chamber is none of your concern," Hux says tightly. "Your concern is protecting--"

"None of my concern?" Ren's eyes widen before his eyebrows draw themselves into a fierce clench of anger. Behind him, the water seems to lash out against the rocks like a caged thing battling for freedom from itself, a roaring crash against the stone. "I have had you in ways that no other being could imagine and this is somehow none of my concern?"

"Your 'concern' is whatever I deem it to be!" Hux snaps.

Silence. Ren clamps his mouth shut, gaze hardening. A small eternity stretches between them before he speaks, voice heated with the vise of anger.

"How could can you expect me to accept this?" Ren rakes a hand through his hair. "Watching you, as you woo these insipid creatures, these vapid tools of political discourse. What is it that you think to gain by this? Power? Prestige? An heir?" The crash of waves swipes the rocks behind him, sends plume of spray high into the air. "You are the Emperor of the entire galactic order. You! A general from the First Order who has risen to a power you could have never imagined. What more could you possibly want?"

An audacious, if not rather ridiculous question. Was the other man being rhetorical? Perhaps flippant?

"What more could I possibly want?" A laugh trickles from his lips, as if Ren's fury is a paltry amusement, a farce of an emotional conflict. "Obedience. Discipline. Order. Do you believe these things come at no expense to me, Ren? Are you so foolish, so blinded by your own basal desires that you cannot see it? Did you honestly believe that there was some manner of 'happy ending' for what transpires between you and I? " But as he speaks the words, the truth of Ren's gaze registers the answer, a wounded reflection bleeding angry starlight. "Oh," Hux says. "Great galaxy, you did believe it."

Ren regards him with a slow tilt of his head, the sea-christened wind fanning his hair to frame an expression that is somehow lost. Far younger than his years.

"What . . . is wrong with that?"

A softness to Ren's words that does not belong to him, that cannot. Something inside of Hux cinches tight, culling his breath and blunting the edges of his vision. This is unacceptable. This, he cannot reconcile. It must not be as such. It will not.

"Well," the Emperor lifts his chin, gaze calm, voice a cultured, accented grace fraught with classic indifference. "I hadn't the faintest idea just how truly artless you so obviously are."

The wind that whips his fair hair into a frenzy settles to a mere breeze, the raging crash of waves a sudden lapping lull of sound. The hardness of Ren's gaze has been reduced to shards of guarded darkness, a broken illusion of its former fire.

" . . . I see," he says. Merely whispers.

He shakes his head, and the curls seem to soften against him somehow as he moves to stride past Hux, dismissing him without so much as a word.

"Ren!" Hux says sharply.

The other man halts but not glance over his shoulder.

"Do not forget that you are sworn to me," Hux warns.

Ren spins on his heel and steps closer, a looming, feral presence that blocks the cold glint of the twin moons with the hunch of his shoulders, the broadness of his chest.

A thread of steel belies the softness of his voice as he speaks, a low rumble of sound against the backdrop of nature's renewed fury. "I am bound to you in duty only."

Hux wets his lips, opens his mouth to speak, but Ren has vanished from his sight, leaving only the wind-roughened swish of grass in his stead.

 

_________________________

 

 

He leaves the Emperor alone, standing there, silhouetted against the shoreline, cape flitting in the renewed breeze. But he does not shift his gaze from the other man's form. He is ever vigilant, watchful. Despite the acerbic assertions of Hux's words, the Enforcer remains as he is, honoring his commitment to that which he is sworn.

He watches as Hux runs a hand through his ruffled ginger locks, listens as he swears into the cold night air, follows as the other man storms off, turning his back on the sea and its twin moons, leaving the roiling darkness to throw itself upon the rocks until the rise of the tide relieves its own exhaustion.

In spite of all that has transpired, he tracks the Emperor each step of the way back to the palace, through the courtyard and back into the ornate absurdity of the building itself.

Captain Phasma waits for him near the base of the stairs and he dismisses her with an unspoken exchange of glances, pretends not to notice the sympathy of her gaze.

 _He is a difficult man,_ her thoughts say.

The mental declaration is far too generous.

He climbs the stairs two at a time, an easy feat for his long stride, saunters down the hallway and comes to halt near the Emperor's quarters which are joined to his own by a single door. Everything that transpires in that room is no secret to him, regardless of how thick the walls may or may not be. He hears everything, be it through actual auditory detection or something more.

Something which has now been called into question.

He halts before the keypad near the door. He has code to the Emperor's quarters. Guards do not know it. Attendants to do not. Only he, Kylo Ren, personal protection to the leader of the galaxy, knows this code. He enters at his leisure, leaves whenever he pleases. He pauses, regards the carved, ornate doors with a tilt of his head chooses his own personal entrance.

Despite the lavish architecture, the room is mostly bare, save the necessities. A bed he does not sleep in. An armoire full of clothing he does not wear. A fireplace he does not light. Books he does not read.

There is nothing of him in here. Nothing that is truly "his."

He sits upon the edge of the bed, unbuckles his boots and takes his time removing them, unbuttons the surcoat and slides it from shoulders, removes the light, woven armor he wears beneath it, strips himself of his pants and sets the clothing aside.

Only the high-collared under tunic remains, flowing just past his hips. The Emperor has purchased other things for him, things that do not bind or constrict his neck, but he has no desire to wear them. There is a strange comfort in the familiarity of this item, of the reminder of a past that he remembers all too keenly, a time when things did not matter as they did now.

He pads on now-bare feet to the balcony, stares into the starry abyss, cocks his head to listen to the distant, but still audible sound of the waves. Aboard the Finalizer, there had been only the quiet stillness of space, never the rustle of the trees or the faint scent of brine upon the wind. A part of him was stirred by such things, moved by a connection he could neither define or quite comprehend.

Brendol Hux was unmoved by this. Just why the man had chosen to take up residence in a planet full of things which he seemed to despise was a mystery. The Emperor was prone to violent, almost comical fits of allergic nonsense if he were to spend too long outdoors. The sun chafed his fair skin to a brilliant red within a matter of minutes. The palace lacked the modern sleekness of a ship, the conventional architecture reminiscent of far more archaic structures. Lunar marble from an obscure mine on a planet he does not know. Cliffside granite from another system entirely. All beautiful to behold, but impractical at best.

Kylo ran a hand through his unbound hair with a sigh. How could one manage to feel so out of place, yet strangely at home at once? He cannot remember the last time he has felt as if he "belonged" anywhere. Or to anyone.

But this is a sentiment he cannot afford. Not any longer.

Beneath him, in the courtyard, a host of bioluminescent insects have begun a show of attracting mates, some broadcasting a spark of teal, others a flash of gold. Their lives are short, mere days once they begin their ritual. They are like living stars amongst the canopy of greenery, burning fast and bright and winking out of existence in the blink of an eye.

Kylo watches the simplicity of their courtship from afar, stands atop the balcony until fewer and fewer lights flicker amongst the leaves. At last he turns away, saunters back into his quarters, towards the shared door that joins his room to that of the Emperor.

He lays a hand upon the wooden slab, presses the tips of his fingers to the smoothness of the wood, slides his hand to the handle of the door . . . .and pauses. Despite the venom of Hux's words, the desire to (be with him) is pull he cannot ignore. The harshness of the other man's sentiments linger heavily within him, reverberating within the corridors of his mind.

_Oblivious. Artless._

The sting of Hux's words is a potent reminder of his "place." His true title. The fingers upon the door curl back into themselves and he steps away.

________________________________

 

"Your Majesty."

A hesitant knock upon the door. A familiar voice.

"Your Majesty, I have your cloak."

But not the right one.

The Emperor grumbles, shoving a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. Or rather, hair that has been displace by a severe lack of sleep.

"Leave it with the guards," Hux growls from across the room. "I've no need of your services this morning."

A pause. "Yes, Sire."

He rises from the bed, the rug beneath his feet somehow coarser than usual, and begins the ritual of making himself presentable. The routine is a mechanical one that he takes no joy in, the heat from the shower a dull patter upon his shoulders, the shave that follows an exercise in swift, exacting precision. He dresses himself without ceremony, without pretense, donning the vestments of his rank with practiced, sterile motions. Buttons fastened. Buckles cinched. Pants tucked into his boots with neat, crisp perfection.

An easy task from his years at the academy, from his time aboard the Finalizer as an esteemed general. A hollow ritual performed in solitude.

He casts his reflection a sneer of disdain before exiting the room, donning his flowing cape as he walks unescorted through the corridors of the palace, down the stairs, across rooms of meteor granite-tiled floors, beneath archways and doorframes, and to the double doors of his own personal meeting area where mundane discussions of galactic foolery will transpire.

Ren waits for him at the edge of doorway dressed in the usual attire, high-necked under tunic hugging his throat, the hints of the woven armor he wears beneath the outer tunic visible to the naked eye.

"Lord Ren," Hux says.

"Your Majesty," comes the clipped response.

The Emperor steps closer. "A word in private, if you please."

Ren's gaze is impassive, unmoved, but he follows Hux down the hallway just the same.

It is all that Hux can do not to slam the door in their wake, all that he can do not to raise his voice immediately as he whirls to face his Enforcer with a swish of his cape, resisting the urge to begin pacing the room as he so often does when his own anxieties have become unbearable.

"Well?"

Ren leans against the desk, arms folded over his chest, a surly, dispassionate expression darkening his prominent features.

"Explain yourself," Hux demands.

One dark eyebrow arches high. "Explain what, exactly?"

"Your behavior!" Hux snaps. "I will not have this manner of insolence in my court, Ren. If you believe yourself to be above reprimand, then you are sorely mist--"

"My . . . insolence?" The other man's voice rises to a sudden roar and things upon the nearest shelf begin to rattle in accordance. _"My insolence?!_ Have I not guarded you, protected you from harm's way in accordance with my position? Have I not seen to it that your little 'interludes' are kept private and that those indiscretions are not circulated amongst the masses upon penalty of painful recourse? And yet, _you_ find _me_ insolent?" The Enforcer tosses his head back with a laugh that an ugly mix of spite and bitterness. "Oh, I think not, _Your Majesty."_

Hux draws himself up to his full height, while not as impressive as Ren's, is still considerable in the grand scheme of things.

"How _dare you_ speak to me in this way!" he hisses. "I could have your head for this!"

Ren is suddenly in front of him, mere increments from his face, his breath a hot brand upon Hux's cheek. "Then do it," he growls. "Go on, Your Majesty. Order my execution. Make an example of me." One gloved finger traces a path down Hux's cheek and the Emperor stiffens. "Ah, but you hesitate? What's the matter? Forgotten how to be an emotionless slave to your need for power? Because that's what you are. The galaxy's greatest puppet, mastered by the whims of those around him. Pathetic."

The threatening pulse of Ren's energy washes over him like a heavy, ponderous thing, Suffocating him. Stifling his ability to think, to breathe. An emotion that Hux does not recognize claws its way to the surface of his thoughts, spreads itself throughout him like a cloying shadow.

Fear.

"You _will_ step away from me, Lord Ren," Hux murmurs.

Dark eyes narrow and one hands lifts, the cold vice of Ren's anger choking the words from him in a literal strangle and he does not know if the man is using alleged Force energy to silence him or if he himself has managed the feat.

Ren's voice is dark and treacherous growl, a roil of ominous verbal thunder. "I am no longer yours to command."

Behind him, books tremble upon shelves while expensive vases and intricate artwork rise and hover. The transparisteel within the ornate window fixtures rattles. The air within the room seems sparse and somehow thick and Hux struggles to fill his lungs, struggles to simply breathe.

Hux commands himself to speak, orders his mouth to form the words and call them forth, but his voice remains frozen in his throat, the only sentiment there the frantic hammering of his heart.

"Perhaps you have dismissed who you once were, Brendol, but do not ever forget what I am."

Hux grapples for the edge of the table, pulling at the edge of his collar, half-clawing at his throat, feeling as if his eyes bulge from their sockets, his tongue seeming to thicken to fill his mouth. The edges of the room begin to blacken, his peripheral vision a yellowed haze, static rising to fill his ears.

With a fierce clench of his fist, Ren relinquished his hold upon the very air Hux breathes. Books scatter. Delicate sculptures shatter to dust upon the meteor granite tiles, and the alleged weapon-proof transparisteel said to withstand nearly anything in the galaxy cracks into a web of fissures.

Hux staggers back against the nearest table, a gasp that is combination of a rough cough and Ren's name heaving itself from his throat. He splays a hand across his chest, lifts his stare to the space where Ren once stood, but the Enforcer is gone, the torn pages of books rustling like empty husks within his wake.

_____________________

 

The Emperor frowns as the senator paces before him, his clipped and hurried steps an anxious dance that is threatening to set off Hux's own anxieties. Senator Fingehn is a gnarled branch of a man, standing taller than even Kylo Ren, age and deformity having twisted his body into knots that even his extravagant robes cannot ride.

To think this man has a daughter that is not only a stunning young woman, but ten years Hux's junior in inconceivable to the Emperor, if not a bit repugnant.

"Your Majesty," Fingehn says, voice a tremulous waver that is both nasal and oddly congenial. "Berrick's gang of death mongers want your blood. My planet has knowledge that may help you. For a price, of course."

Hux grunts. Jaan Berrick and his insipid brigade of followers. One would think the upstart would have gone the way of his father and fallen into a sarlacc pit by now.

"Oh, don't be so dramatic, Senator," Hux says with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Berrick hasn't the resources for such a thing."

"But Your Majesty," Fingehn argues, wringing his knobbed fingers. "Our intel has suggested otherwise. I do not mean to over step my boundaries, but your underestimation is what he desires most."

A second advisor from Fingehn's estate hands the Emperor a datapad, which he swipes through in a brisk, almost irritated fashion. And much to his chagrin, the alleged evidence is overwhelming.

"Fine," Hux sets the datapad upon the table. "We shall discuss the terms of your 'treaty.' But I haven't the patience for you dalliance, Senator. One of my own must accompany your captain in this matter, no matter what the terms of our agreement." He rises, glances towards the group of guards near the edge of the room. "I shall send--"

"I will go."

The name of the would-be appointed party dies on his tongue and Hux can only stare at his Enforcer, who has stepped forward into the light, the noble lines of his profile presenting an air of calm that is almost aristocratic. Stoic. Unmoved by the thought of abandoning his duty to Hux on whim.

It is as if a star that once burned bright within the former Knight has flickered into darkness, leaving no trace of warmth. He catches Ren's gaze, furrows his brow in confusion, silently demands an answer. The other man's stare is unreadable. Blank. A void.

" _You_. . .will?" The Emperor says at last.

Ren's expression is a professional neutrality that Hux cannot penetrate. "I will."

"Berrick has quite an allegiance, Lord Ren," the senator says. "It could take weeks, perhaps even months to locate him as well as those affiliated with him. Are you certain?"

A hint of a smile curves one side of Ren's mouth, a flash of wistful sadness that lingers for less the length of a single breath.

"Yes," he says.

Hux wets his suddenly dry lips, tries to swallow past the desert that is his throat. He opens his mouth to inform Ren that this is out of the question, that he most certainly is not gallivanting off to galaxy only knows where for however long he damn well pleases, that his duty is here to the sovereign leader of the galaxy. To him.

But the words tangle within him until they seem to manifest as physical pain, a solid knot in the depths of his chest that restricts his breath and threatens to turn his stomach.

Ren flicks his gaze to Hux's own. Waiting. There is no defiance, no fiery challenge. The Emperor manages a slow blink, feels himself nod.

"Go, then." He speaks to Senator Fingehn, but his eyes are upon Ren. "See to it that the proper preparations are made."

_________________________________________

 

He has no knowledge of just how long the mission will take nor does he know just what he might encounter whilst completing it, but he packs very little just the same. The ornate outfits will not serve him. The books are not needed.

Two tunics. His lightweight vest of fabric-like woven armor. Two under tunics. Two pairs of pants, one leather, one a climate adaptable sort of knit. His gloves.

He eyes the space still left within the bag and does not care to fill it. Instead, he sits upon the edge of his bed, arms resting upon his thighs. It is the first time he has been away from the palace. From the Emperor.

He rakes a hand through his hair, stares for a moment at the door that joins their quarters and sits up a bit straighter.

He is coming. He senses it.

"Ren."

Hux's voice from the other side of the wood. A soft knock following in its wake. Strange. The Emperor has never bothered with such formalities before, simply barging into Kylo's quarters as he pleases.

"Come in," Kylo says, the words stiff and unnatural upon his tongue.

The door opens with an almost hesitant creak and Hux steps inside with a swish of his cape, a dark length of fabric draped over his arm. He walks towards Kylo, boots clicking importantly atop the heartwood inlaid upon the floor.

He pauses just before the space where Kylo still sits, his gaze flicking to the still-open bag upon the bed.

"I thought . . . " the Emperor clears his throat, presents his fabric-draped arm to Kylo. "I thought perhaps you might need this."

A surcoat. Black. Plush. Obviously tailored to the coldness of space or harsh climates.

For a moment, Kylo stares at the vestment before he closes his fingers over it and pulls it from the other man's arm with a swish of cloth. Soft yet durable. Richly textured in a subtle fashion. Functional yet still visually appealing. Such as it always was with the Emperor, whose tastes ran towards the deceptively extravagant.

Kylo starts to say that Hux needn't concern himself with his warmth or his comfort, but instead, he folds the surcoat into a neat square and sets it aside. He does not place it within the bag.

"Thank you," he says.

Neither speaks for the stretch of a small eternity and Hux fixes his gaze upon the bookshelf, moves to inspect to the titles there.

"I could stop you, you realize," he says, fingers tracing the spine of the nearest novel.

"You could," Kylo agrees. "But you will not."

He does not miss the way Hux traces a finger over his throat in a unconscious gesture and Kylo resists the urge to wince. He hadn't meant for the display to go so far, to hurt the other man in such a way. He wets his lips and draws a breath, willing himself to speak, but there is only silence that stretches into an eternity .

"Well, then. The shuttle departs within the hour." Hux clears his throat again, ending the action with a light cough and Kylo rises to his feet, reaches a hand towards him, and withdraws it, fist clenched at his side. "I shall leave you to it."

Kylo says nothing.

The Emperor does not glance over his shoulder as he walks away.

___________________________

"Lord Ren."

Kylo glances up from his inspection of the ship's left wing with the raise of an eyebrow.

"Berrick has spotted in a system near the Outer Rim. If we are to follow while the trail is hot, we must do so now."

Kylo nods but says nothing, his scrutiny of the ship a covert distraction from the tightness in his chest that has a begun a slow consumption of his breath. Instead, he nods, and the pilot does not question him further aside from emphasizing his stance with an urgent hustle towards the loading dock.

Satisfied with whatever nuance he had been examining, Kylo makes his way towards the ramp, pausing to glance over his shoulder.

The Emperor has not come to watch him depart. No one appears from the shadows to ask him to stay. It is a foolish, wistful thought, the whimsy of one far younger than Kylo's thirty years, something that he must put aside.

He glances to the captain. To the waiting crew. To the guards nearby. Back to the captain.

The man is speaking into his comlink in a low voice that Kylo cannot hear, presumably giving final orders to his crew or copilot. But it is the repetitive tapping of his foot that draws Kylo's attention, the impatient drum of his fingers against his thigh.

The man is nervous. Too anxious to leave. In too much of a hurry.

"Something bothering you, Captain?" Kylo asks.

"Of course not," the other man says. "I am merely anxious to ensure the Emperor's safety."

Kylo steps closer. "Are you?"

"Yes, Lord Ren."

An echo of falsehoods ring in Kylo's mind at the "assertion." The Captain is lying. Desperately.

The man flicks his gaze to Kylo's own and the Enforcer raises a hand, paralyzing his body and invading his mind. Within the man's subconscious is a web of fear, each strand vibrating with the fervor of his anxiety.

_Senator Fingehn. A covert communication. Five men. Eight. Berrick's picture flashing on digital canvas. The Emperor signing documentation, hand poised just above the paper._

_A crossfire of blaster emissions and ----_

The Enforcer's eyes widen and he bolts from the loading dock, sprinting towards the palace stairs, drawing upon the Force to add speed to his gait as he shoves aside both guards and servants alike, his boots an echoing thunder within the meteor granite corridors.

He leaps over furniture, skids around a sharp corner, saber ignited as he charges down the corridor and nearly stumbles to a halt near the edge of the conference room.

"And of course, if Your Majesty would simply give his written consent . . ."

Fingehn's dour voice. Hux's articulate precision in response.

Kylo bursts through the doors, a blur of energetic fury as the first bolt of blaster fire rips through the stuffy atmosphere of the room. With a wave of his free hand, he immobilizes the blast mid-air, mere increments from his own skin and freezes the "guard" who has dealt it in place, severing his entire arm from his body in one felling stroke of his saber.

He spins in a clockwise counter to the swing of a vibro spear, slicing the weapon into useless scrap metal and lifts its owner from the ground with a clench of his fist, choking the life from him with mere intention and no physical contact.

The blaster bolt unfreezes and explodes into the chest of a third assailant, who has little time to point his weapon at the enraged Enforcer, who has now leapt atop the table, sword to the tip of Fingehn's throat, blade crackling with angry static.

"Traitorous bastard!" Kylo snarls.

Fingehn's eyes hold a nefarious twinkle that Kylo does not recognize. "Put down the weapon, Lord Ren."

The tip of Fingehn's blaster is jammed against the Emperor's ribs. Hux's green eyes betray no fear as he stands very still, his gaze upon Kylo's own.

"Please." Kylo makes a sound of derision. "You haven't the fortitude."

"Maybe not," Fingehn agrees as he nods towards the remaining guards. "But they do."

Blasters, vibro spears, and comet flame throwers point in the same direction, trained upon a very specific target.

_Him._

____________________

 

The Emperor is not afraid of death. He has never contemplated its mechanics, nor does he fear the sudden end of his existence. He has not questioned how his own personal demise may occur.

It is not until this moment that he has thought of death as anything that mattered at all. Until the eyes of death were upon the man that stands before him.

"You are a coward, Fingehn," Hux says. "A coward who lacks the courage of his convictions."

The barrel of the blaster shoves itself further into his ribs. "We shall see, Your Majesty."

"Your theatrics bore me," Hux says, as if the entire scene is a trivial, poorly staged drama. "I do suggest that you get on with it or withdraw your efforts. Either way, your judgment will come swiftly, for I am not merciful man."

"You are a _tyrant_ ," Fingehn hisses. "As was your father before you. What nonsense has the galaxy wrought, seeing to it that you are to rule above all others? Someone must put an end to you."

Hux lifts a shoulder in an elegant, idle shrug.

"And _you_." Fingehn trains his gaze upon Ren, who is a furious, bristling creature that rivals the uneven static of his lightsaber. "I have seen what you are capable of, but you cannot stop us all, Lord Ren. Berrick will bring fairness and diplomacy to the galaxy with or without your interference."

Ren's eyes narrow and for a moment, Hux swears that it is not the glint of his saber that tints his eyes a blazing shade of red. "We'll see."

Across the room, a blaster is raised, the cold calculation of certain death for an ordinary man, but it is redirected with a simple flick of Ren's wrist. The vibro spears are severed along with the heads of two adversaries. Hux himself twists from Fingehn's strangely iron-clad grip, sending not only the weapon, but the man himself flying.

Ren catches the blaster fire, holds it at bay, lifting soldiers from their feet, silencing weapons.

In the doorway, a lone figure appears, slender and slight of shoulders. Feminine. Hux recognizes the poise, the mannerisms of the posture, the delicate curve of her body.

_Leena._

"Leena, do not this," Hux says. "It is me that you wish to harm."

Her fingers tremble upon the trigger of the blaster as she aims for the Emperor, but her gaze is not for him. It is entirely for Ren.

"You," she begins. "It is always _you,_ is it not? The entire fate of the galaxy rests in the hands of this man and somehow he chooses you? _You?"_ Leena's words are a desperate, choking hitch, a waver of emotional confusion. And anger. "What can _you_ give him? You cannot so much as bear him a child, yet you are all that he sees, all that he desires. Everyone in the entire galaxy knows of it, yet no one takes issue with the fact that the Emperor will have no heir, no blood relative to pass his dynasty to in the event of his death, no one to make decisions on his behalf, should the need arise. Because of you." Her voice quivers, but the blaster does not, her aim the careful precision of one taught by a royal marksman, trained upon Hux's heart.

It is an aim that will not miss.

"A leader should do what is best for the people, but the Emperor chooses no one but himself. That makes him unfit to rule this galaxy," she says to Ren.

"Leena . . . " Hux's lips barely form the cusp of her name before the woman squeezes the trigger her blaster, the flash of blue seeming more explosive than the brightest star, blazing a path for Hux's chest.

The speed at which Ren moves is preternatural, swifter than Hux can draw breath, but the scene itself is a horrific slow-motion that brands his mind's eye with every detail in exacting, scarring clarity.

Bodies crash to the floor, blaster bolts released and buried in shards of explosive energy against the nearest wall. But it is Leena's fire that he sees, the bolt from her blaster that was meant for him ripping through Ren's clothing, piercing his side, and seeming to somehow dissolve within his body as he clamps a hand over the smoldering cloth, staggering to one knee before stretching a clenching hand towards the senator's daughter, who beings to claw at her throat.

Her toes lift from the ground, feet kicking in an almost comical fashion and the moans of the wounded become a sonorous death rattle that is a ghoulish counterpart of Leena's gurgling choke of a scream.

Fingehn's anguished cry rends the air, silenced by a vicious toss of Ren's wrist and trembling fisting of fingers, a sickening crack of the senator's neck, his head lolling at an unnatural angle, eyes gaping in surprise before his deceptively frail form crumples to the ground.

Hux clamors across the overturned table, scrambles across the ornate tile, tears his cape from his shoulder, sending the clasp flying with a ping of metal.

At his approach, Ren struggles to sit up, but collapses back against the marble, a slow-spreading stain of blood creeping beneath his body in a sticky pool of darkness.

"No . . ." the word trembles from the edges of his lips before exploding into a flurry of curses. "No, Ren. Blast it all, do not dare!"

He slips a hand beneath the other man's back, props him into a sitting position, fumbles to stanch the flow of blood that ebbs in a steady stream from the half-cauterized wound in his side.

Ren coughs, a trickle of crimson bubbling near the edge of his lips, bloody fingers reaching to curl around Hux's arm.

"You are . . . alright?" An eerily breathy inquiry.

He presses the cloth to Ren's side. "Of course I am!" Hux snaps.

The hand lifts, smearing the cold essence of Ren's life force down his jaw with a trembling finger.

"I am . . . " A shivering rattle of breath. Another blood-flecked cough. "I am . . . glad . . ."

Hux grasps the bloody fingers, kisses the quivering tips of each one in turn. "You imbecile." His voice is a tremor of sound, a hardness he cannot maintain.

The darkness of Ren's eyes softens to warm amber, lips curving into a smile his mouth cannot hold.

"Bren . . ." he murmurs.

Such fondness in that gaze, an acceptance of a fate that Hux cannot bear.

"Do not look at me in that way," the emperor commands. Pleads.

The hand slides from his jaw, rests upon Ren's chest, and the dark eyes flutter shut, a heaving cough shaking him, trailing in a wisp of breath that does not rise again.

Guards swarm the room, weapons pointed at the bodies of their fallen comrades, Captain Phasma leading the charge as she rushes to Hux's side.

"Your Majesty." She moves to grip his wrist in a effort to right him, but Hux evades her hand with a furious swat of fingers. "Your Majesty, you must step aside."

He hears the words, but they do not register, lingering at the edge of his subconscious mind like static.

"Sire, you must step aside so that we can help him."

Hands grasp his arms, hoist him to his feet, half-drag him away as Ren's limp form is lifted from the marble, an ominous pool of crimson having spread beneath it.

"Captain, he isn't breathing."

Hux draws a sharp, cringing intake of air.

_Is he breathing? Can he even manage?_

"Take His Majesty to safe space."

Ren is unmoving. Head lolled at an unnatural angle as he is whisked away, one pale hand hanging in limp repose at his side.

"Your Majesty. You must come with us."

_So much of Ren's life force trickling to the ground. So much blood. So much . . ._

"Your Majesty, can you hear me?"

_Your Majesty. Sire. His Majesty. Emperor . . . ._

_"All of you unhand me!"_ Hux snaps, tearing the grips of many hands from his person. "I am perfectly capable of escorting myself!"

He stalks past the guards and down the corridor, Phasma following in his wake, ignoring his ire as he whirls to face her.

"You will not take me to safe space," he informs her. "Take me to medical."

The woman is unmoved by his rage, her face a calm anchor in the storm of his emotional outburst. "As you like, Sire."

Halfway down the next hall, he excuses himself into the nearest lavatory, struggles not to become violently, indecently sick, squints at the hollow visage in the mirror.

Eyes that he cannot possibly own regard him return, skin a sallow rendition of paleness, sweat-dampened hair askew.

Unfamiliar. Unrecognizable. Haunted.

The shards of himself shatter as his fist connects with the glass.

 

_____________________________________________________________

 

"You may view him, Your Majesty. But prepare yourself for his condition. He still has not awakened and we do not know when or if he shall."

The Emperor begins to inform the physician that he needn't ascertain his "permission" for anything in this entire galaxy, but holds his tongue and merely nods.

He has moved Ren into one of the spare rooms with a lavish, comfortable bed, had ordered the equipment that monitors his vital signs to be moved with him, and has chased away the night nurse assigned to watch over him.

He will watch. He will stay.

"That will be all, thank you," he says.

The physician nods, leaving Hux alone in the room. With Ren.

He approaches the bed, bracing himself for something far worse than what he sees.

Ren seems oddly peaceful. Hux watches the rise and fall of his chest, observes the slight parting of lips, listens for the heavy, even sound of his breathing. His gaze flicks to the bandage that wraps his torso, observes the white strips of fabric for any sign of red, for the slightest tinge of pink. His eyes travel to the man's brow, which is still lightly beaded in sweat, evidence of a breaking fever and a body struggling to heal itself and he resists the urge to brush away a clinging fragment of damp hair that clings to his temple.

In his medically-induced slumber, the man's fingers twitch, his head lolling to one side of the pillow. Ren's every movement awakens a fresh jolt of anxiety within him, stiffens his posture to rigid discomfort.

When an inkling of blood appears, Hux can stand it no longer. He sits beside the sleeping man, removes the glove of his uninjured hand with precise, even tugs, and places it upon the nightstand, bare fingers flexing. He leaves the other as it is, covering the evidence of his outburst after Ren's seemingly lifeless body had been carted away by the medics, the drape of his pale hand hanging with limp finality.

The sight of his own reflection had proven to be too much.

His fingers wander to edge of the gauze wrapping, tugging an insubordinate edge into straight submission. How dare the material not lie as flat as it should. How insolent--

A hand clasps his wrist, a vise of a grip belied by the prone nature of its owner, and dark eyes regard him with the calculated ruthlessness of a warrior's instinct and Hux resists the urge to snap his hand away.

The hardened stare softens, the fingers retract and Ren sighs, the slightest hint of a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth.

"It's you," he says.

His voice is rough rasp of sound and Hux manages to suppress the wince that threatens him.

Hux's shoulders sag with relief as he nearly slides from the bed, commanding his posture back to its usual rigidity.

"Of course it is," the Emperor says, as if Ren has postulated something ludicrous.

A soft cough escapes the bed-ridden Enforcer and his entire body cringes in response and Hux finds himself mirroring the action in sympathetic companionship. No blood bubbles to fleck Ren's lips. No indication that he is bleeding from an unseen place.

He brushes away the clinging nuisance of Ren's hair, trails a knuckled finger down his jaw. "Is your discomfort great?"

The coughing subsides and Ren casts him a bleary stare, as if the simple action has cost him a day's worth of energy. He catches the tips of Hux's fingers within his own and brushes a kiss over them. "It is bearable for me."

A shiver runs the length of his spine and Hux swallows, willing his voice to remain level, his gaze to stay steady. He has not earned such simple, tender gesture. Does not deserve its thoughtful nuance. "Is it? I . . I am pleased."

Fingers lace through his own in a lazy tangle and he does not protest, allowing the subtle squeeze of their conjoined hands to linger, stilling himself until Ren draws his touch away, hand resting flat upon his bare chest.

"Your bandage needs changing," Hux says as he sets about the task of unfastening the cloth with methodical concentration.

It gives him somewhere else to cast his gaze, something else to do with this hands. Anything aside from looking into Ren's dark eyes, which is simply a thing that he cannot bear in this moment.

"It's fine," Ren says.

"No," Hux retorts with a firm, dismissive tone. "It most certainly is not fine."

The fingers tremble upon the fabric for the briefest instant and he struggles to continue with the process. He has seen the wound at its worst, unstitched and bleeding copious streams of sticky darkness upon Ren's bare skin, soaking the material of his pants, ruining the edge of the cape that Hux had attempted to use to stanch the flow of it, staining his gloves with something darker than the leather.

The sutures beneath the gauze are orderly perfection, precise to the point of absurdity. He knows this because he saw to the stitching of the superficial layers himself. The smaller abrasions which did not require such care continued to seep, a normal process, but one that he suddenly cannot seem to abide by.

The blood is a reminder. A taunt. He must eradicate it from his sight.

Disregarding Ren's stare, he strips the man of the bandage, peels the gauze from his wound, and gathers the sterile components to redress it. Ren does not flinch as he cleans the more superficial cuts, wipes away the extraneous blood, checks the alignment of the stitching more than once.

"This should have been changed hours ago," Hux mutters more to himself than to Ren.

The other man says nothing, his gaze fixed upon Hux's face as the Emperor tapes the gauze into place and begins to rewrap his torso with the careful, even tautness of a new bandage.

A hand grasps his gloved fingers and Hux flicks his gaze elsewhere, fisting his hand when Ren attempts to tug the leather free of it.

"What have you done to yourself that you do not want me to see?"

Ren has not pried into his mind for this. No, he has ascertained this moment for himself through simple observation, which is quite possibly a more irritating prospect.

Hux draws his hand away from Ren's reach. "You needn't concern yourself with me."

Dark eyes regard him in that piercing, unreadable way that only Ren can manage. "My concern for you is what binds me to you."

Hux's wound-stiffened fingers flex within the leather until he feels the slow-healing skin begin to crack. His nostrils flare as he orders his breathing into normalcy and presents the hand to Ren without ceremony, cool indifference carving his features into a familiar mask.

Ren takes his time removing the leather, as if he senses what lies beneath it, and Hux resists the urge to grunt as he realizes that the wounds have sealed themselves to the material. He regrets that he did not dress it properly, but the need for secrecy has trumped the proper ritual for such things.

As if the shattered mirror itself would not tell his tale.

The Enforcer drops the glove onto the bed sheets and tilts his head with a slow, assessing stare at Hux's bloodied knuckles, at the cuts and bruises that mar the fair skin, some deeper than others, some merely a shallow graze.

Ren nods to the bottle of antiseptic upon the nightstand. "Hand me that."

"Ren," Hux begins with a sigh. "This isn't ne---"

Fingers squeeze his wrist. " _Hand me_ . . . the bottle."

With a grunt, Hux reaches for the thing, passes it over along with several squares of gauze. Ren's touch is gentle, every dab of stinging liquid a careful, almost regretful gesture, but Hux does not wince until Ren pauses to dislodge a shard of glass that Hux has somehow missed, holding it between his nails and holding it aloft.

"Yes, careless of me, I know this." Hux watches as Ren sets the small sliver of glass upon a piece of bloody gauze and tends to the next finger.

"Unusual for you," Ren says.

"I can tend to this myself, you realize," Hux says as Ren dabs at his thumb.

"You can," Ren says. "But you won't."

"This is absolute nonsense," Hux says. "You lie there, barely able to so much as move and yet, you seek to coddle the results of my own foolish whims." He snatched the rolled gauze from the nightstand and rips off a piece of it, pulling his hand from Ren's grasp to wrap the thin strip around the worse of his wounded fingers. "There, now. You see? I am capable of mending my own mess."

An angry tearing of tape follows and he finds that winding it at the precise angle that he has wrapped his knuckle is a chore. "Blast it all," he snarls. "I haven't the time for--"

Ren's hand grasps the tips of his fingers, draws the wounded hand back towards his body, unwraps the finger. Rewraps it. Tapes the gauze together. Hux's hand trembles within Ren's strangely capable grasp, mending each finger in turn and ending with wrapping his knuckles in a solid line of white.

It isn't until he brings Hux's injured hand to his lips and brushes a kiss atop the bandaged and bruised flesh that the Emperor's composure begins to unravel.

"Release me," Hux commands him, dismayed by the hollow waver of his own voice.

"No," Ren says.

"Ren." Hux swallows past the rising lump in his throat. "I _order you_ to let me go."

The Enforcer grips his wrist and jerks his body close with a sudden burst of strength and Hux's eyes widen.

 _"Cease this at once!"_ Hux snaps. Ren's hands grip his shoulders and he struggles against it, uninjured palm flat against the other man's chest. "Blast it all, Ren. You _will_ do as I say! You. . . will . . ."

"No," Ren says again. Gentler. Softer. "I won't."

The hand upon Ren's chest curls into itself and Hux clenches his teeth as the trembling of his fingers spreads to his arms, traversing his shoulders and consuming his entire being. He half-collapses against the uninjured side of Ren's body, fingers fisting the dark softness of Ren's hair.

"Why did you not simply allow them to destroy me?" Hux's voice is a broken pitch of sound he cannot smooth into any semblance order. "That, I could have endured. But not . . . n-not . . . "

"My life is sworn to this," Ren says. "And to you."

With a final quiver of breath, Hux dissolves into a convulsive shudder of a sob that threatens to choke the life from his body and Ren's grip upon him becomes the very thing that keeps him from shattering into something unrecognizable and beyond repair.

It should not be this way. Not with Ren lying prone and pale upon the mattress, barely into the earliest stages of convalescing. Not with him, the Emperor of the entire galactic order reduced to such inappropriate state within his embrace. It is shameful. Absurd. Unacceptable.

He draws a steadying inhalation, forces his breathing into some semblance of order, demands that his body rebuild its composure, and slowly pieces together the destruction of the carefully erected fortress that is his entire being. The militant General. The Emperor of the galaxy. He is the definition of power and prestige. The embodiment of discipline. The epitome of composure.

Lips brush the side of his mouth, the sharp tang of his own despair a bitter taste that is overshadowed by the lingering press of Ren's lips so that he turns into the kiss to receive it fully. Ren's embrace tightens and Hux slides his arms around his neck, tries to remind himself that the man is injured, tries to order himself to pull away and show some blasted restraint, but the kiss deepens in spite of it. The slightest hint of a moan escapes him as Ren slows the exchange of lips and tongue until it dwindles to little more than a soft pressing of mouths.

"I should . . . " Hux wet his lips. Swallows. "I should leave you to rest."

"Stay," Ren says. "Lie with me."

"No. I should--" Hux pauses. Stares into the dark eyes for a moment. Reads what is left unspoken. "Alright," he says instead.

He settles himself against the pillows and invites Ren closer, mindful of just how the other man takes care to fit himself against his body despite his injury, helping Ren to ease himself into a comfortable state when a soft hiss of pain escapes him. He adjusts himself to accommodate Ren's position as best he can, uncaring of if the other man's weight causes his limbs to tingle or go numb.

Ren nuzzles his jaw, slips a hand beneath his jacket, pushes his head beneath Hux's chin like some great beast and rumbles a sound of contentment when Hux threads his fingers through the soft waves of his hair.

The rise and fall of Ren's chest against his own is a comforting feeling, the slow beating of his heart a lulling rhythm, but Hux does not sleep. He spends his time in darkness, attuned to Ren's every breath, his every movement.

The entire galaxy is at his disposal, billions of willing beings at his beck and call and yet, there is nothing that he can imagine that he desires more in this moment. Not power, not conquest . . . only the simple rise and fall of Ren's untroubled breath, the warmth of skin, the near tangible pulse of his life energy in this state of calm, restful bliss. Trust. Solid and fragile at once. Fierce and even possessive. Ren is living wildness, full of passion and jealous rage, of anger and sadness, incorrigible and infuriating. There is no taming him, no reducing him.

And Hux has no desire to do so. Never again.

He lies in the quiet stillness of twilight until dawn begins to crest upon the horizon, pinkening the sky with a bold infusion of fire and pastel, until the first rays of the twin suns unfurl within the room, caressing the paleness of Ren's skin with shards of light against the dark backdrop of his tousled hair.

The Emperor rises with the dawn, but not on this day. Instead, he lies within the confines of the blankets, the heaviness of Ren's body a comforting weight upon his far more slender frame.

He brushes away the damp hair that clings to Ren's forehead and notes with no small degree of relief that his skin has cooled to the touch. Fingers twine with his own and Hux shifts enough to glance at his companion, who utters a soft moan at the slight change in position.

"My apologies. I . . .did not mean to cause you any undue pain."

_Because of me. My actions. My words._

He wets his lips and draws an unsteady breath, as if testing his own ability to speak. "Are you, then?" he murmurs, voice a far quieter rendition of its normal brisk crispness. "In pain?"

A pause. The hand squeezes and threads of warmth unfurl within him, as if more than mere hands have coalesced and the Enforcer cranes his neck, kissing the underside of Hux's jaw.

Ren's mouth moves against his skin as he speaks, the faint upward curve of his lips a sensation that has grown oddly familiar over time, one that Hux needn't witness to recognize.

"Not anymore."


End file.
